


squiddish

by cyndakip



Series: the price of perfection [4]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Autistic Dot, Canada Moist Talkers (Blaseball Team), Gen, Season 9, Season 9 Day X, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26980453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyndakip/pseuds/cyndakip
Summary: The world cracks in half, and Dot falls out of it, falls into it, falls and lands on feet that no longer feel quite like feet.Changed, again.(PolkaDot Patterson readjusts to life outside the shell, with help from their teammates.)
Relationships: PolkaDot Patterson & The Canada Moist Talkers
Series: the price of perfection [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969006
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31
Collections: Canada Moist Talkers Fanfiction





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I've still been working away at a couple of other Dot fics that take place before this, but I sat down and wrote this in one sitting the day after they got unshelled and I figure I might as well post it while it's relevant, even if a little extra context would have been better. I do recommend reading the one I've already posted before reading this, but it can also stand on its own.
> 
> (this probably goes without saying but I am so so so happy to have Dot back aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh)

For the first time since time stopped mattering, PolkaDot Patterson hears a voice.

Dot uncurls and stretches as much as they can inside the shell, the unfamiliar sound lifting them up from the depths of sleep. This voice is soft, curious, though it carries the unmistakable undercurrent of power.

The gods are back. This particular brand of solitude is over.

The world cracks in half, and Dot falls out of it, falls into it, falls and lands on feet that no longer feel quite like feet.

Changed, again.

They look at their many hands, watch them shift with every blink back and forth from fingers to something new, something slimy and wavy and  _ other _ .

Where are the voices? The rest of the gods are silent, a silence that now rings loud in their ears. Where is the rhythm? Nothing is in their head now but a tangle of tentacles, twisting their thoughts into confusion.

_ Look _ . Where are they? Dot pushes aside the remnants of the shell and claws their way through the tangle of their thoughts.

The team. It’s the team. They’ve formed a circle around Dot, blinking in awe. Who -- names -- the one with that glowy eye -- Jenkins, yes, Jenkins springs forward as if to catch Dot, hold them up, but that’s ridiculous, they’re  _ fine _ , they haven’t forgotten how to stand, and Dot waves everyone off with their tentacles -- arms, no, they’re arms, of course -- and then everything spins and they think maybe they’ll sit down anyway until the world decides to cooperate.

Voices. They’re saying things. Not the gods, the team. What are they saying?

“How… how long?” Dot asks, their voice sounding unfamiliar in their own ears.

“Two seasons, plus a long siesta,” says -- who -- the spiky one, the one with the sad eyes, the one who -- oh, yes, Ziwa.

“I’m fine,” says Dot, because they think someone might have asked at some point. And it’s not that they don’t feel fine, exactly, in fact they feel  _ great _ , some new and exciting sensation of power is coursing through their veins and it’s wild and chaotic and right and wrong and it’s just a  _ lot _ \--

The team is saying things all at once. Dot had forgotten how many things were always being said.

_ Moist God -- risky -- worked? -- had to try -- sure you’re fine? -- sorry -- are those tentacles? -- _

Dot closes their eyes, suddenly missing the quiet of the shell. The world used to make  _ sense _ . What happened to it?

“Give them some space, they’ve been all alone in a peanut for ages and almost eaten by a giant squid,” someone says sharply. The other voices dwindle to blissful silence.

Who said that? Morse? Morse always knows what to say. And when to not say anything.

Dot opens their eyes again. The team is still there. It’s not the same team.

Focus. Who’s missing? 

...Haley, and Quack. Lachlan is… here, again? And there's somebody, somebody from the Garages. Swaps? Not deaths. Nobody died. Nobody died, right?

The other pitchers -- Jenkins, frowning slightly, and Greer with those teeth flashing. Mooney is scribbling notes. Morse is --

Not here.

There’s a dog at the edge of the circle, looking at Dot with distrust. Workman’s dog. Gloom. Beasley. 

This is not how things should be.

Find the rhythm, Dot. Fit the world back together.

The world does not comply. They reach out to touch it and everything is wiggly and strange and nothing is where it should be. What happened to the world?

Their thoughts need untangling; there’s important information in there now, they know, if they can only find it. Maybe they’ll just sit here for a moment longer, then, in the open air. Free. That’s good, right?

Right? 

If there’s an answer, it’s still waiting to be heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure that going from ages of complete silence to suddenly being surrounded by your entire team and gaining mysterious squid powers would be a hell of a sensory overload experience. 
> 
> I didn't write the "give them some space" line as being said by anyone in particular, so feel free to attribute it to whoever you want. (Except Morse. Gosh, I miss Morse.)
> 
> I'll probably add to this once we find out what squiddish does, but for now it's back to work on the other fics!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been over a month, but I finally have a second chapter! We know what squiddish does now, and I admit I was expecting it to have a more dramatic effect, but... at least it's not something bad? ~~yes of course I did want dot to be the one to call up the hall stars and personally destroy the peanut but the fight we did get instead was also awesome so I'm not going to complain~~
> 
> Anyway, have more of this! I've incorporated a few of the more recent additions to Dot’s wiki lore, though I've had to tweak some things to get them to fit the story. And as always, I have plenty of my own headcanons to inflict on you!
> 
> (I probably wouldn’t be posting this yet if it weren’t for the fact that it’s Dot Day on the discord and blaseball has made me terribly impulsive! So here we are. Hope you enjoy it!)

Of all the changes Dot has been greeted with upon being freed from the shell, the most startling one, even more so than the tentacles, is the way their team is acting.

They all seem unusually... happy. Happy to see Dot, when before their attitudes had rarely been more than respectful acknowledgement. (Or outright hostility, for a brief time, but that's a time that Dot very much does not like to think about.) Of course, that had been Dot’s attitude towards the team as well, so they had never expected anything more in return. They rarely gave anyone their attention, so what have they done to deserve this attention now? It all feels like some strange peanut-induced dream, as if they might wake up alone in the darkness of the shell again at any moment. 

But the team remains stubbornly there, always hovering nearby, saying nice things, asking questions, telling them everything they’ve missed. It's a lot to take in, still, and Dot is left simultaneously missing the peacefulness of the shell and wanting to cling to everyone because they can't bear to be alone for one more second -- but they're PolkaDot Patterson, and they don't do things like that. 

It's difficult to reconcile, for the first few days. Dot mostly spends the time doing their best to bring the universe back into focus, fitting the pieces back together until they find that the whole thing looks to have settled a little to the side, familiar and yet not. It’s as if someone had moved all their furniture an inch while they were gone, just enough for everything to feel a little off.

(Their actual furniture has not been touched, as evidenced by the thick layers of dust lying on all of it. They’ve been gone a long time.)

It’s quiet. Not the calm inside-a-peanut-shell quiet, but unsettlingly quiet, the sort of quiet that rings loud in their ears. If the gods have anything to say, they’re choosing not to say it.

Dot’s not pitching yet, though. They’re of no use to the gods when they’re not pitching. They expect to hear from them again when the next season starts, but for now, at least, they’re glad to have a chance to listen to the team instead.

The team, however, does not have much good news. Haley has gone to the Thieves. Quack and Morse have gone to the Garages. Hobbs has... Hobbs has just gone. 

More players have been shelled.  _ York _ has been shelled, one season after Dot stepped up to protect him. Was this all for nothing? 

_ Why me? _ they had demanded -- screamed, if they're being honest; it wasn’t a great day -- as soon as they heard. _ Why didn’t you save him? Save anyone but me? _

_ It was a big risk, _ the team said. _ No one else would trust the Monitor. Even we weren't entirely sure if it would work. _

So they were willing to risk Dot’s life, but no one else's. Dot can't even fault them for this, though, not with everything else that's happened, not when the team seems so genuinely glad to have them back. They know it was a hard decision.

And if it  _ had _ gone wrong, better them than York. Than anyone. It might still go wrong.

Dot hears all about the Hall Monitor from the team, but they didn't need to. They already knew it, somehow, somewhere in the back of their mind in this strange tangle of thoughts. There's a faint new presence there, deep blue and quiet, waiting for something. Dot doesn't want to ask it what it's waiting for, not yet. They can wait, too.

The Talkers didn't make the playoffs. They haven't for a while. Dot’s postseason is spent off the field, simply relearning how to exist in this world. They haven't picked up a blaseball since the last game they pitched, several seasons ago. They're not ready to know yet, to know if the rhythm will come back, to know if they're still the same pitcher. Not ready to find out what the answer might be, what they might  _ want _ the answer to be. Their hands always feel restless, now, their fingers twitching as if wanting to curl around a ball, but they do their best to ignore it, go lift more weights instead, and it doesn't help, not really, but it's better than knowing.

Sometimes, their apartment feels unbearably small, as if the walls are closing in, trapping them inside, and so they leave, just get up and walk outside, even in the middle of the night.  _ Especially _ in the middle of the night, when they've been lying awake for hours and the world is too still and quiet for them to sleep and they're afraid that if they do they’ll wake up back  _ there _ , which isn't something they should be afraid of because how could that even happen, and it's not as if it was bad, in the shell, it was peaceful and quiet, and that's nothing to be afraid of, right? Just like sleep. Just sleep, Dot. Sleep. 

But they can't. They don't sleep, and they don't pitch (and who are they, if they don't pitch?); they wander. Wander through Sunken Halifax, when the skies are dark and the crowds are gone and a few stars manage to shine above the lights of the city. Better than in the day, when they have to pretend not to notice that people are staring at them more than usual. Or worse, when people come up to them and say things, ask them things, and they just blink and never respond because what can they say? At night it's just Dot and a quiet that is safer, out under the open skies.

Not as safe as they would like, though, because there were skies above them when they got shelled, the sky was the last thing they saw, which they try not to think about, because they need to feel safe  _ somewhere _ . And so they find a new somewhere, start diving under the water because down there they don't need to think about the sky  _ or _ the shell, just the soft dark and the quiet that wraps around them, consistent as the new presence in the back of their mind. 

Dot spends more time exploring the city in a week than they have in all the years they've been living there. They had thought it pointless when they first moved in, expecting to be gone by the end of the season. They'd never had the chance to properly adjust to Baltimore, so they didn't even try when they got to Halifax. And as the years went on, and they were still there, it became more of a habit than anything else to just go to the stadium, pitch, go back to the apartment. One, two, three. Over and over and over.

Now, it’s as if another world has opened up to them, and they step into it willingly, easily traversing even the deepest, fully submerged areas thanks to their new body. Dot knows it's the Monitor who has claimed them, but as they drift through the waters of Halifax, letting the tide tug at their new gills, following anywhere it wants to lead them, they can't help but feel that the city has finally claimed them, too. 

They sit and watch the sun rise from underwater, watch it paint the world around them in soft glittering gold and sparkling blue, and wonder how they could have ever failed to notice how beautiful this place has always been. Refused to notice, even. 

Dot finds a new routine. Stay up all night, return in the morning, fall back into bed and finally drift into sleep for a few hours, curtains open, the light promising freedom. It's okay if they don't sleep much; it's not as if they  _ need _ to sleep. It's the offseason. There aren't any games to go to where they would need to be alert. They could pitch on no sleep anyway and it wouldn't make a difference.

At least, it wouldn't have before. They don't know if it would now. They're not going to think about it.

* * *

The phone rings. It's been doing that a lot lately.

“Come over tomorrow,” Lachlan says by way of greeting.

“Why.”

“The Garages are out of the playoffs, so we're throwing a retirement party for Morse!”

A party? Dot doesn't go to those. Apparently they partied while in the shell, but they have no memory of it.

“...Okay,” Dot says anyway, because it's Morse. Literally the worst pitcher in the league, but no one can say he hasn't worked hard, hasn't put his heart and soul into his former team for so many years, both on and off the field. He deserves it, and if Dot’s being honest, they owe him a lot. 

“Great!” Lachlan says. “Hope to see you there.”

Strangely, it seems as if he means it.

And so Dot goes, the next day. Lachlan's house is popular for gatherings, both because he loves to cook for the team and because he's one of the few to have an actual house, having lived in Halifax prior to joining the splort. Dot, of course, has never been there, but they have no trouble finding it. The giant banner draped across the front, displaying the message HAPPY RETIREMENT, MORSE! certainly helps.

They walk inside, and --

“SURPRISE!” 

Morse is already there.  _ Everyone _ is there, even some former teammates, Quack quacking happily and Joe lurking in the shadows. What's going on?

More banners. These ones read WELCOME BACK, DOT! and WE MISSED YOU!

Oh.

What?

For them, too?

“Welcome back, Dot,” Lachlan says, grinning from behind a table heaped with food. The others chime in with similar sentiments.

“We wanted to do this earlier, but we know you weren’t up for it.” Ziwa looks at them with concern. “Is this okay? Sorry if it's too much for you. Should we have waited longer?”

Dot blinks, their eyes feeling strangely moist.

“This is. It is. I.” What can they even say? “Thank you.” 

The team seems to be satisfied with that response, soon falling back into chattering with each other rather than all crowding Dot at once, which they're very thankful for. They head over to talk to Morse, hoping he can make some sense of this.

“Can I still congratulate you on your retirement, or was that all an elaborate ruse?”

He laughs. “No, that was all true. And thank you. It's great to see you again, Dot, even if it won't be for long.” 

No one can simply retire, in blaseball. Morse is going to the Shadows to get Mike back, and he's going to stay in Seattle, because that's his team now, and he won't be  _ here _ . This is yet another item on the list of things that Dot has been trying not to think about. 

“What about  _ your _ party? You deserve better than sharing one with me.”

“Actually, it was my idea. I won’t be in Halifax for very long, so we all thought it would be easier to coordinate one big party. And, be honest, you would have tried to talk us out of throwing you a party at all if we had told you. Or you wouldn't have shown up.”

“I... yes, okay,” Dot admits. “But you're  _ retiring _ ! This is your last chance to have something that's all about you.”

“And when have I ever wanted that? I had more than enough time to shine while you were gone. More than I expected. Never thought I could say I've pitched more no-hitters than PolkaDot Patterson, though I'm sure I won't be saying it for long.” 

“Never thought I could say you have either, but I'm glad I can. If... if you have to go, that's a good way to go out.”

“Somebody has to, and I'm the best choice. One no-hitter doesn't make me a great pitcher. It's about time I stepped back, let some younger players take over, spent some more time with my husband. I’ll always miss the Talkers, but it's a relief to know that they're in your many capable hands again.”

It is? Dot doesn't know how to bring the team together like Morse did. They were only ever good at the pitching, and now... 

“Maybe not as capable as you think. I don't know if I can pitch like I used to. I haven't even dared to try. I don't deserve to be taking up all the attention at your party. You… you all shouldn't even be throwing me a party in the first place.”

Morse looks at them. “Dot. You are more than just a pitcher. I doubt your pitching has been affected, but even if it has, you’re still worthy of your spot on the team. You think they're throwing  _ me _ a party for my pitching ability? We don't care about you because you can pitch, we care about you because you’re Dot. We haven't always been the best at understanding what it means to  _ be _ Dot, but we’re trying, because we care. We really did miss you.”

Why are their eyes so moist? Is this another side effect of the squiddishness? They couldn't cry when it mattered, when everything was going wrong, so why would they cry now? 

“I… I care about you too,” Dot manages to say, before darting away to try and find a conversation where things might make more sense. 

* * *

It gets to be too much pretty quickly, the crowd and the loud and the everything, so Dot slips outside to just sit on the steps for a moment, needing to feel the open air again. Let them all focus on Morse while they still can.

Movement, out of the corner of their eye. They're not alone. A figure steps out from behind a bush.

Beasley Gloom looks at Dot. Wary, but not hostile.

This is not a conversation they were looking forward to, especially as it will be rather one-sided. 

“Beasley?”

A noncommittal soft woof.

What are they supposed to say? Say something, Dot.

“I... I don't know what the team's been saying about me, but I want you to know that I'm sorry about Workman. Every day I wish I could have done something to stop what happened. I respected them very much, and I know how much they loved you. We all miss them too. I… I also know how hard it is to adjust to a new team. I am sure everyone has been doing their best to make you feel welcome, and I want to do my best, too. So… welcome to the Moist Talkers. I look forward to working with you.”

Not for the first time, Dot wishes Workman were here. Dot never needed to worry about saying the right thing to Workman; Workman simply understood. 

Beasley considers all this, and then slowly, very slowly, moves closer to Dot’s outstretched tentacle-hand. Dot carefully lowers it until it's resting on his head, expecting him to flinch away at the feeling, a painful reminder that Dot is even more different now.

Instead, Beasley's tail thumps once, definitively. Maybe he understands, too.

Ziwa finds them both out there, eventually, Dot sitting on the steps and petting Beasley as his tail continues to wag. 

“Oh, there you are. I was about to ask if you were doing okay, but looks like Beasley beat me to it.” 

“We are... doing well, I think.” 

Beasley punctuates this with a yip.

“That’s good. I don't want to break up your bonding, but you’ll probably miss the cake if you don’t come back inside.” 

“I doubt they would eat all the cake, if half of it is to celebrate me.”

“Well, they’re a whole team of hungry blaseball players. But yeah, that was kind of an empty threat. Just wanted to let you know we’d be glad to see you back there, if you want to join us.”

“That seems to be the sentiment, lately. It… I appreciate it, though I do not entirely understand.”

“Two seasons is a long time,” Ziwa says quietly. “Things change. Things were already changing.”

“It felt like much less time in there,” Dot admits. “It was hard to feel time at all, in fact. It's not really the sort of thing I can explain. But, yes. I was changing before, in a way.”

“And your time cocooned in the shell helped you complete your transformation into a friendlier, beautiful butterfly? Except, uh, a very squidlike one.” 

They almost laugh. “Those are not the words I would use, but perhaps, though it’s far from complete.”

“Yeah. I guess it’s kind of the same for all of us. We’re still working on it.”

“It’s something worth working on. I should have admitted that to myself sooner.”

“Never too late to start.” 

Beasley barks in agreement and manages to wiggle even closer to Dot, who scratches his ears.

Ziwa’s smiling. “It's nice to see you two getting along. I never knew you were a dog person.”

Dot looks at Beasley, who is smiling a very slobbery dog smile and thumping his tail rhythmically against the steps. “I never knew I was a dog person either.”

“Beasley's having some trouble settling in, you know. He’s been taking turns staying with everyone, but hasn't found a proper home yet. CV really wanted to take him in, but he already has Budy, and two dogs are a bit much for him to handle.”

Dot thinks that this might be more a case of CV being a bit much for Beasley to handle, though they don't say so. 

(Dot also isn't sure why everyone keeps calling Budy a dog. He is clearly not a dog. However, like Beasley, he is a very good boy, and they've decided it's better not to ask.)

“Do you want to come stay with me tonight, Beasley?” Dot asks.

Beasley thumps his tail again. A yes. 

“Do you want to have cake first?”

Another yes.

And so Dot gets up to follow Ziwa, and Beasley gets up to follow Dot, and they head back inside to where the team is waiting.

* * *

Beasley trots along behind Dot on the way back from the party, still seeming content to be with them. Admittedly, this may have something to do with the fact that they’re now carrying several bags of dog food after stopping at the store, but they’d like to believe it's more than that.

“Well, here we are,” Dot says, opening the door to their apartment with their extra hands. “Make yourself comfortable.”

They turn to look at Beasley, who's sitting there with an unfamiliar pair of shoes in his mouth, head tilted to the side as if waiting for something. 

“Where did you -- uh, I mean... good boy?” Well, they're not going to tell him  _ not _ to steal shoes, if it helps him feel at home.

Tail wagging, Beasley dashes off into another room, presumably to hide the shoes somewhere. Dot leaves him to it as they go about setting out food and water, and tries not to picture what their currently-tidy apartment would look like overflowing with shoes. 

They follow Beasley as he curiously sniffs around the apartment. He noses Dot’s weights, sits down next to them, and barks. 

“Oh, you lift weights too, don't you? I remember Workman mentioning that you had taken it up.” 

Beasley's ears droop a little. Why does Dot always manage to say the wrong thing?

“I'm sorry, I never meant to upset you. I… I miss them too.”

Beasley shakes his head as if to say  _ it's okay _ .

“All right. Well, you're welcome to use the weights anytime.”

He barks.

“Yes, including now.”

Watching a dog lift weights is a strange experience -- but what hasn't been, lately? Beasley certainly proves to be more than capable at it.

The rest of the evening passes uneventfully, though pleasantly. It's not until Dot finally begins the usually futile process of going to bed that they realize they didn't buy a bed for Beasley.

Beasley, undeterred by this, scrabbles his way up onto Dot’s bed, turns around three times, and lies down at the foot of it.

“...You can sleep there, I suppose. That's okay.” 

The dog is already snoring. 

Dot climbs into bed, careful not to disturb him, and wonders how their life can keep getting stranger even after the whole peanut and squid situation.

This is good, though, they think, and it's not until they open their eyes hours later to sunlight and Beasley still snoring that they realize it was the last thought they’d had before falling asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I'm planning on going all the way up to the end of season 10 with this, so I think it might end up being about six chapters in total? We'll see how it goes. ~~and I will inevitably be posting fics that take place after this before it's finished, because apparently that's what I do now~~
> 
> \- I honestly still don't know what to do with Sunken Halifax. How sunken is it? As much as I want it to be at any given moment! I don't recommend immersing yourself in the water unless you're willing to fully embrace the grossness of Moist Talker life, and/or you’re part eldritch squid. 
> 
> \- I'm not a dog person myself, so I'm not an expert on how to write them, but I had fun writing Beasley anyway! He's a very good boy.
> 
> \- Hope you enjoyed the beginnings of team bonding! Next chapter will be, uh, not as much about that. But stay tuned anyway! (Or don’t, that’s ok too. I’m not gonna tell you how to live your life.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, apparently this fic only gets updated once a month, which was not the plan... I guess it's kind of inevitable, though, since I've been working on four fics at once and so this one didn't get the attention it needed for quite a while. Also unfortunately I've been having some eye strain issues lately which has really limited both the time I've been able to spend working on things and the ability of my brain to Do Words Good (so if this isn't quite up to my usual standard, well, that's probably why). Not sure when that's going to be fully resolved, but it's only a temporary issue caused by my glasses, so no need to worry about me or anything! Just letting you all know why I've been fairly quiet lately.
> 
> anyway time for DAY X

The first blaseball game Dot experiences in several seasons is not a game they pitch, or even a game they sit on the bench for. Rather, the Shoe Thieves make the finals, and Simon invites all the Moist Talkers out to Charleston to watch. Dot goes along, because of course Beasley has to go, and they've somehow become responsible for him. And because they think they might just actually enjoy it -- watching this would be as close as they've ever been to a championship, after all. And because the alternative is being entirely alone, and right now, they can't think of anything worse to be.

The point is, they go.

And it's nice, it is, for these two teams that share so much to spend a bit of time together. Nice to see Simon again for the first time in seasons. Definitely nice for Beasley, who is ecstatic to be reunited with so many of his favourite people. 

Nice to watch a game from the stands, for once, surrounded by teammates who don't have to worry about playing. They can just... enjoy it, and cheer on the Thieves. No pressure, no responsibility, just yelling COMET! like old times, and picking up the other cheers, too. (True, Dot was never one for cheering before, but now they join in from time to time, because, well. It's nice.) 

Dot ends up sitting next to McBlase. She had insisted she was too busy with a case to come along but ultimately showed up anyway, sitting in the stands with Beans on her shoulders and a pile of legal documents in her lap, glancing up at the game every now and then. Several innings in, Beans winds her way over towards Dot, seemingly unbothered by their squiddishness. Dot cautiously pets her as she purrs, and they think that maybe they’re not just a dog person, but a cat person, too. 

They make sure to keep a careful eye on Beasley at the same time. He's busy bounding around in the aisles, up and down the stairs, barking joyfully every time the Thieves get a hit, or make a nice catch, or Cornelius pitches a strikeout -- and barking a lot of times in between, too, out of pure excitement. 

Despite paying attention to Beans and Beasley, Dot has no trouble also focusing on every aspect of the game, every line and angle, every action mapped out in their mind, seeing, understanding, _knowing_ how every pitch and swing will play out in the split second before it happens. It is some comfort to know that they still have this, that even as the world continues changing around them, blaseball still makes sense in its own nonsensical way. This ability hasn't left them, at least.

It's game five. They're still here, somewhat surprisingly. After losing the first two games, no one had very high hopes that the Thieves could come back, and yet they've managed to do it. It's not looking great for them now, though -- ninth inning, down by two runs. But it's certainly not _impossible_ …

Dot shifts forward a little in their seat as the bottom of the inning starts, an instinctive but pointless gesture, as they're not going to miss anything regardless. Everyone else is watching with eager anticipation too; even McBlase has abandoned all pretense of being preoccupied by the law as the Thieves’ last chance rolls around. 

And they start to take the chance. Vela hits a single, Simon draws a walk, and it all falls into place. No outs, just Stu confidently strolling up to the plate. As she stands there ready to swing, everyone, not just Dot, knows something big is about to happen.

_Thwack._ The ball sails out of the park, Stu disappears under an ecstatic pile of her teammates as she reaches home, and the crowd erupts into screaming, barking, and chanting of SHAME!

The game's not quite over, of course, and the Thieves’ celebration is briefly broken up until they get more outs, but no one's really paying attention to that; the winner has already been decided. The Talkers are still out of their seats, ready to run down and congratulate the champions.

As the celebration goes on around them, Dot can't help feeling the absence, can't help thinking how much Workman would have loved to see this, and Tony -- and all the other Thieves who didn’t live to win this championship with their team, and all the other Talkers who didn’t live to watch it. 

But all the same, Dot thinks, they’re glad they could be here, glad they came to see this, at least.

And suddenly they can't think, can't be glad of anything at all, because something is happening, something is _wrong_. The screaming is back, terrified this time, and then drowned out entirely by the shrill and unrelenting sound of sirens. 

Dot manages to look up, though they know what they will see. A painfully familiar figure rotating in the sky, blocking out the sun, taunting. The last thing they saw before their world went dark, so long ago and yet not very long ago at all.

The Shelled One descends, and it’s not alone. Smaller shells land alongside it, cracking open, finally setting the players free. York. Jessica. Axel. So many of the Tacos. They don't talk, only take up their positions, moving as one to the same rhythm. 

This is not freedom.

Beasley is howling as he scrambles down the stairs to the field, Lachlan following close behind, racing to help their former teammates. Many of the Talkers join them, but Dot suddenly finds it hard to move, hard to breathe as the peanut laughs in the sky and the Pods await their orders and the world seems to be closing in again.

It _is_ closing in, they can feel it, the universe shifting and folding itself tightly around everyone, keeping them off the field. Lachlan and Beasley and the others find their way blocked by an invisible barrier, impossible to break through. 

The Crabs had left the field, but they're running back, trying to get to Axel, trying to help. Nagomi is desperately calling to York. But there's no answer from the Pods, no way to reach them through the barrier.

The Thieves must face this alone.

Dot looks at York, the Vibe Check no longer seeming too big for him, though he is still so small under the shadow of the Shelled One, still just a child. York, who had been so willing to step up and sacrifice himself for his friends. He is almost unrecognizable now, and not just because he has grown; there is no sign of that bravery, that brightness, that cheerful smile that made him who he was. This batter stands stiff and cruel and _wrong_ , his expression nothing but an unrelenting blankness. 

This is not York Silk.

Dot was supposed to protect York from this, and yet he is out there and they are not -- and they were so close to being out there too, so close to being one of those mindless Pods, saved only at the last minute by their team’s faith in the Moist God. It should have been anyone but Dot, because Dot _understands_ , understands how it feels to have the gods in their head, understand how it feels to live in a body that is not their own. They know this would give them no advantage, would make them no less helpless than the others, but if they could prevent him, prevent _anyone_ from experiencing something like that... 

But there is no preventing it, of course. There is nothing but the will of the gods. Dot cannot be there instead, because they were freed, and the others were not.

They were freed...

_Why did you free me?_ they finally demand of the quiet, distant presence in their head. _What can I do to help? To stop this?_

There is no response.

_You saved me from being one of them! You made me into something new! It has to be for_ **_something_** _!_

Silence.

Dot rises, strides toward the field, pounds their many strange tentacle-fists against the barrier, over and over and over. 

_Help me save him. Help me save them. Please._

The barrier does not give. 

“Please,” they whisper out loud.

But once again, all they can do is watch.

It's Jaylen who steps up, of course. Jaylen, another who knows how it feels to be controlled by the gods, even though her very presence defies them. Jaylen, who has waited so long for an opportunity to make things right. Jaylen, who has finally found her place on the Thieves as she stares down the peanut, two fingers pressed to her neck, feedback crackling in the air. 

She throws a pitch, and a different game begins, if a fight for survival can even be called a game at all. The Thieves are champions, and yet they can barely hold their own, can barely even stand up as every wrong move they make drains their energy. Dot’s focus is gone; everything is a blur of taunting from the Shelled One and desperation from the Thieves and an unsettling silence from the Pods. The blaseballs fly back and forth on paths that Dot can no longer follow.

But they see it all painfully clearly, when the figure who is York and yet not York steps up to the plate.

**MY DORK** , the Shelled One mocks, and for a breathless moment the rest of the world is gone and all that remains has narrowed to those two bright blood-red words in Dot’s head, sparking a rage they never knew they were capable of feeling. 

“ _He is not yours_.”

But the Shelled One does not hear, or does not care, or is laughing quietly to itself as it grips the Vibe Check with York’s hands and swings, and York can do nothing to stop it, and Dot can do nothing to stop it, and no one can do anything to stop it, not even the Shoe Thieves, not even Jaylen. 

They're losing. Of course they're losing. How could they, how could anyone, ever defeat a god? The Pods are unstoppable, unflinching, and the Shoe Thieves are barely standing up.

**SURRENDER** , booms the Shelled One, and the Thieves have no choice, all collapsing to the ground as Jessica Telephone knocks the ball out of the park with no fanfare, no celebration, just a blank stare and an impossibly powerful swing.

It's over.

But the barrier holds strong, and continues to do so until the peanut has finished taunting and disappeared back into the sky along with the Pods. There is no saving York today, and Dot knows it -- maybe no saving him ever, but no, don't think of that, there _has_ to be a way -- but they run onto the field at the first possible opportunity anyway, because they have to do something, have to find a way to help someone, at least. 

The Thieves are scattered, bruised and battered, but alive, and slowly getting to their feet with the help of the Talkers and the Crabs and each other. Jaylen is still on the mound, swaying slightly, having held her own against a god, but no one has gone to check on her.

“Jaylen?” Dot says.

She instinctively whips around to face them, arm poised to throw. Dot doesn't flinch.

“Jaylen. It's over. You can stop now.”

And she does stop, slowly. Uncurls the death grip of her fingers and lets the ball fall even as her other hand slips up to that familiar position on her neck, searching. Dot waits while she finds her rhythm, and they could certainly use a moment to do the same. 

Dot had talked to Jaylen since the unshelling, just a brief “glad to hear you're not trapped inside a peanut anymore” “thank you, glad to hear your pitches no longer cause death” sort of conversation; neither of them were up for much talking beyond that. They hadn't _seen_ her, though, and up close she looks... well, not great. Not just from her fight against the peanut; she seems as if she's been steeped in anger and weariness for a while now, both life and death weighing on her heavily.

“Goddammit,” she mutters finally, looking up at the sky. “Let it get away.”

“I do not believe you could have done anything differently.”

“You're still on about that, are you? The whole _oh, the gods control everything, nothing we do matters_ thing? Have you considered that maybe we're just not strong enough, not fighting hard enough? No one else made me throw that pitch to Jess, that was all me. If I had thrown a better one, we might not be having this conversation. You can’t pin all your failures on the gods.”

Dot is suddenly reminded that when people say Jaylen is dangerous, they do not just mean her pitches, but also her words, her temper, which Dot has never had to face before. They don't much like the prospect of facing it now, but they push on, decide not to argue, ask the question they should have led with instead.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh, sure, I'm doing fantastic. That was a delightful time for everyone involved.” She seems to register the genuine concern, and softens a little. “But, yeah. I'll live. Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“I know that was… difficult, but you performed admirably.” 

“Yeah, I'm sure my team is going to be real grateful that I lasted so long. Six whole innings of pure suffering, and all for nothing. Really makes up for everything I've done already.”

“You fought it as best you could, unprepared.”

“Next time I'm gonna kill that bastard,” she growls, all fire and sharpness again, and in that moment, Dot almost believes she might.

_Next time._ The peanut had promised there would be a next time. Someone will have to fight it, and it may not be the Thieves.

It may not be Jaylen.

“...Jaylen?” Dot says hesitantly. “Do you mind if I ask you a question about your time in the Hall?”

“Huh?” she says, barely paying attention. “Sure. Fine.” 

“What was the Monitor like?”

“The squid? Rarely saw it up close, but it liked to lurk in the background, watching. I don't think it was actually paying much attention, seeing as I ended up here.” Jaylen looks at them, remembering. “So you have some kind of connection with it now?”

“Not as much as I thought, it seems. My attempts to contact it were... quite unsuccessful.”

And in that moment, as if this is all some sort of cruel joke, Dot feels it draw near, is the first to look up at those wide eyes and waving tentacles that have appeared in the sky.

**did i miss something?**

**shoot**

**let me know next time**

Dot can't believe it. _Where were you? I let you know_ **_this_ ** _time! You missed_ **_everything_** _!_

But it fades away, as if it hasn't heard, or isn't listening, or doesn't care.

Freed, changed, given this connection, and yet it is not enough. Dot still cannot stop anything from happening.

“Bastards, all of ‘em,” Jaylen mutters, watching another god disappear. 

Dot is inclined to agree.

“Well, we'll find a way. Wyatt seems to think there’s something we can do. Keep trying, but if you can't do anything, I will.” She slowly curls her hand into a fist, pausing halfway through as if surprised to find it empty. “I'll do whatever it takes.”

She doesn't sound confident, or angry, or even resigned. Just flat. As if the concept is so ingrained in her now that it no longer means anything.

“You don't have to take this all on yourself. This... this might be my job to do.” Dot gestures vaguely with their new tentacles. “I must be this way for a reason.” Despite the Monitor’s silence, there _must_ have been a reason. There always is.

Jaylen doesn't agree. “Sometimes the reason is that everything the gods do, everything _we_ do, has consequences. Sometimes things just happen, and we have to live with it.” The flatness is gone, her voice taking a sharp turn upwards. “You're not special just because you grew some extra hands and tentacles and learned to see into the universe! You can't see everything, you can't see the grand plan because _there isn't one_ ! They all make their own plans and we all make our own plans and some of them work and some of them don’t! The gods are just out there doing things that make us do things and sometimes it's on purpose and sometimes it's not and sometimes we can change things and sometimes we can't, and even when we can change things it's _not enough_!” 

She throws her words not like pitches, but like knives, sharp and merciless, cutting Dot to the bone. They stumble backwards.

“No,” they whisper. After a moment they repeat it, stronger. Trying to convince themselves, if not her. “No. I -- I do not want to be this, but I _am_ , and there must be a reason. There has to be. I just want to do something, for once, with this ability. Something that matters. You told me to keep fighting, before. I am trying to.”

Jalen laughs bitterly. “Sometimes you keep fighting and you keep fighting and you keep fighting and you still can't win.”

And that is what Jaylen does; she fights. She has been fighting ever since they all dragged her back and she hasn’t stopped fighting for a single moment. The peanut has abruptly disappeared, and she needs someone to fight, so Dot tries very hard to not take it personally. And to not think about whether what she says is true.

“I... I know. But you will keep fighting. You said you would kill it.”

“I will,” she agrees. “Or you will. Or someone else will. Or we'll all die. _Something_ will happen. Things. Just. Happen.” 

“They have happened a lot to us, I know. To you especially. I understand your frustration.”

“You don't understand as much as you think you do.”

“Maybe not,” they admit. “But I am trying.”

Jaylen sighs, and some of the sharpness seems to smooth away again. “...Yeah. You actually are. You're not the one I should be yelling at. Sorry.”

“I appreciate the apology, though I do not blame you for yelling, considering all that has happened. While I wish you would not say... certain things, I am at least willing to listen.”

“Well, that makes you the only one. You see anyone else coming to join us? I fought off a god and they can't even be bothered to check on me.” 

“Do not forget that they fought too, just as hard as you did. I doubt any of them are thinking very clearly after all that. You may be surprised to find that, in time, your team will come to listen to you, if you listen to them in return.”

And there it is again, the anger. “You can't just compare all your life experiences to mine. _You_ haven't sat through three seasons of pure hatred. _You_ don't have twelve deaths on your hands. Compared to me, you've done nothing that needs forgiving, so of course they forgave you. I've barely been on the Thieves for any time at all, you think they're all going to love me if we just talk it over for a minute?”

Once again, Dot feels helpless. “...No. But you all shared this terrible experience today, and that is something that could bring you even slightly closer together. It would be good to at least try, I think. You should not have to face this alone.”

“You want to tell that to my team? Tell them to be _nice_ to me? That should go over well.”

“I just want…” Dot trails off. There are too many _wants_ to be put into words.

Jaylen nods curtly. “Yeah. We all do. And I don't know if we’re going to get it. Not anymore.” She turns and strides away, but looks back over her shoulder before she gets too far. “But thanks for trying, at least.”

And then she’s gone, leaving Dot to stare up at the empty sky, trying not to think about reasons and peanuts and York-who-is-not-York, and failing. 

That's where Beasley finds them, eventually, and gets their attention with a soft woof.

“Beasley?” 

He moves closer, and Dot is suddenly hyperaware of their body that is not really theirs, of the _wrongness_ of it, and their tentacles twist uncomfortably as they take a step back.

Beasley whimpers in confusion. He's a smart dog, but he's still a _dog_ , and it doesn't matter to him if Dot is human or squid or demigod or all of those or none of those, what matters is that everyone he cares about is hurting and he wants to help. 

And so Dot lets him help, after a moment, crouches down and folds their arms-that-are-not-arms around him. He doesn't flinch away, and so they try not to, either, holding him close, trying to comfort and be comforted.

“Dot?”

They quickly straighten up and look. It’s Ziwa, most of their other teammates hovering behind. A quick glance at the field reveals that the Crabs have gone and the Shoe Thieves have mostly limped away.

“Yes. Hello.” Dot considers also saying _I'm fine_ , but they don't even have the energy to lie.

“You coming?”

Dot isn't sure where they're all going, whether it's to be with the Thieves, or back to Halifax, or just anywhere away from this field -- and does it even matter where? There's nothing Dot can do here, nothing they can do to help York or even Jaylen. Maybe there's nothing they can do, at all. 

So they go, because Beasley is going, and they need to look after him. And because they don’t want to stand on this empty field anymore. And because if they’re alone it’s impossible not to think about the darkness of the shell and how they twice failed to save York and everything that Jaylen said.

The point is, they go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that Jaylen scene went places I wasn't expecting! Might be a little inconsistent with how I wrote her before, but I wanted to show off her angry side. Still not sure how well it works/how much sense it makes, but I had fun with it, so here we are anyway.
> 
> Not sure when the next chapter will be out, mainly because I actually don't have much of an idea for what I want to do with it. In the meantime, though, you can expect some Dot and Workman content! Hopefully fairly soon. Thanks for reading <3


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